Although he had had no rest upon the previous night, and hadwatched with little intermission for some weeks past, sleeping onlyin the day by starts and snatches, Mr Haredale, from the dawn ofmorning until sunset, sought his niece in every place where hedeemed it possible she could have taken refuge. All day long,nothing, save a draught of water, passed his lips; though he prosecuted his inquiries far and wide, and never so much as satdown, once.
In every quarter he could think of; at Chigwell and in London; atthe houses of the tradespeople with whom he dealt, and of thefriends he knew; he pursued his search. A prey to the mostharrowing anxieties and apprehensions, he went from magistrate tomagistrate, and finally to the Secretary of State. The onlycomfort he received was from this minister, who assured him thatthe Government, being now driven to the exercise of the extremeprerogatives of the Crown, were determined to exert them; that aproclamation would probably be out upon the morrow, giving to themilitary, discretionary and unlimited power in the suppression ofthe riots; that the sympathies of the King, the Administration, andboth Houses of Parliament, and indeed of all good men of everyreligious persuasion, were strongly with the injured Catholics; andthat justice should be done them at any cost or hazard. He toldhim, moreover, that other persons whose houses had been burnt, hadfor a time lost sight of their children or their relatives, buthad, in every case, within his knowledge, succeeded in discoveringthem; that his complaint should be remembered, and fully stated inthe instructions given to the officers in command, and to all theinferior myrmidons of justice; and that everything that could be done to help him, should be done, with a goodwill and in goodfaith.
Grateful for this consolation, feeble as it was in its reference tothe past, and little hope as it afforded him in connection with thesubject of distress which lay nearest to his heart; and reallythankful for the interest the minister expressed, and seemed tofeel, in his condition; Mr Haredale withdrew. He found himself,with the night coming on, alone in the streets; and destitute ofany place in which to lay his head.
He entered an hotel near Charing Cross, and ordered somerefreshment and a bed. He saw that his faint and worn appearanceattracted the attention of the landlord and his waiters; andthinking that they might suppose him to be penniless, took out hispurse, and laid it on the table. It was not that, the landlordsaid, in a faltering voice. If he were one of those who hadsuffered by the rioters, he durst not give him entertainment. Hehad a family of children, and had been twice warned to be carefulin receiving guests. He heartily prayed his forgiveness, but whatcould he do?
Nothing. No man felt that more sincerely than Mr Haredale. He told the man as much, and left the house.
Feeling that he might have anticipated this occurrence, after whathe had seen at Chigwell in the morning, where no man dared to toucha spade, though he offered a large reward to all who would come anddig among the ruins of his house, he walked along the Strand; tooproud to expose himself to another refusal, and of too generous aspirit to involve in distress or ruin any honest tradesman whomight be weak enough to give him shelter. He wandered into one ofthe streets by the side of the river, and was pacing in athoughtful manner up and down, thinking of things that had happenedlong ago, when he heard a servant-man at an upper window call toanother on the opposite side of the street, that the mob weresetting fire to Newgate.
To Newgate! where that man was! His failing strength returned,his energies came back with tenfold vigour, on the instant. If itwere possible--if they should set the murderer free--was he, afterall he had undergone, to die with the suspicion of having slain hisown brother, dimly gathering about him-He had no consciousness of going to the jail; but there he stood,before it. There was the crowd wedged and pressed together in a dense, dark, moving mass; and there were the flames soaring up intothe air. His head turned round and round, lights flashed beforehis eyes, and he struggled hard with two men.
"Nay, nay," said one. "Be more yourself, my good sir. We attractattention here. Come away. What can you do among so many men?"
"The gentleman"s always for doing something," said the other,forcing him along as he spoke. "I like him for that. I do likehim for that."
They had by this time got him into a court, hard by the prison. Helooked from one to the other, and as he tried to release himself,felt that he tottered on his feet. He who had spoken first, wasthe old gentleman whom he had seen at the Lord Mayor"s. The otherwas John Grueby, who had stood by him so manfully at Westminster.
"What does this mean?" he asked them faintly. "How came wetogether?"
"On the skirts of the crowd," returned the distiller; "but comewith us. Pray come with us. You seem to know my friend here?"
"Surely," said Mr Haredale, looking in a kind of stupor at John.
"He"ll tell you then," returned the old gentleman, "that I am a manto be trusted. He"s my servant. He was lately (as you know, Ihave no doubt) in Lord George Gordon"s service; but he left it, andbrought, in pure goodwill to me and others, who are marked by therioters, such intelligence as he had picked up, of their designs."
--"On one condition, please, sir," said John, touching his hat. Noevidence against my lord--a misled man--a kind-hearted man, sir.
My lord never intended this."
"The condition will be observed, of course," rejoined the olddistiller. "It"s a point of honour. But come with us, sir; praycome with us."
John Grueby added no entreaties, but he adopted a different kind ofpersuasion, by putting his arm through one of Mr Haredale"s, whilehis master took the other, and leading him away with all speed.
